NapjunkieMom

Jonny has developed a fear of cardboard tubes.

That pretty much says it all.

Robert makes up names for me all the time, usually nonsense names that sort of sound like a real words. After Sunday school at the Unitarian Universalist Church this morning, he said "You humanist." I asked him if he learned that word in Sunday school, and he swears he didn't. He also said he didn't learn anything in Sunday school this week, but he would next week.

Robert and Jon have reached a new milestone in their relationship. Robert gave Jon not one, but two, nicknames. The first one was "Potatohead", followed several days later by "Beetle".

Robert has started wearing glasses, and it was explained to his preschool friends that he needed to wear his glasses until his eyes were better. The lens popped out of the glasses, and they had to be returned to the store (and shipped off) to be fixed. He went to school the next day and one of his preschool friends said, "Robert, your eyes are better!"

Robert said tonight, at the dinner table, "I have no employment in my head".

Robert was at the dinner table when he said "I love you." Since he was looking down at his food when he said that, I asked him if he was telling that to his stir-fry. He grinned and then said, "What are you doing tomorrow, stir-fry?"

Robert had a shirt that he refused to have buttoned. His excuse: "I am Tortellini. Tortellini does not button his shirt!"

Jonny doesn't care that the bakery made a mistake.

I thought it was quite a coup that I found car-shaped candles for Robert's birthday. He said for his next birthday, he'd wants helicopters. At least I have a year to look for them.

Robert talks all day long, and his voice gets higher pitched the later in the day it gets. By bedtime, it can hurt the ears. I'm convinced the kid probably talks all night, and we just can't hear it, but the neighborhood dogs probably can.

Jim and Robert were wrestling this evening, as a manly bonding event, and Robert had his shirt off. Jim decided to take his shirt off too, and Robert said "Daddy, put your shirt back on. I don't want to look at that."

Robert has a poster of flags of the states in his room. He's memorized them, and refers to them numerically. We met someone recently from Missouri, and he said "Oh, that's the 25th state." We had to take his word for it.

Robert has devised a math game that includes his love of calendars. It started innocently enough--"Mommy, what's 3+4?", "Mommy, what's 85+30?". It has progressed to asking "Mommy, what's January + March?" (Answer: April) "Mommy, what's August - April (Answer: April). Then he starts asking "What's August 2006-September 2005?". That's when I say "I haven't a clue."

I've decided since I won't be having a vacation anytime soon, I might as well have a fake vacation (or fakation--Jim dreamt that one up). I'm not doing anything special, in fact, I'm still doing pretty much the same things I usually do--laundry, cooking, driving the mommobile. The difference is that I say to myself several times a day--I'm on vacation. Just saying those words helps somehow.

Robert is obsessed with numbers now. He likes to ask me how old I was in the past, which isn't so bad, but I really hate when he tells me how old I'll be, oh say, twenty years from now. "Oh Mommy, you're going to be 60!" he crows.

Jonny's love affair with our cat remains unabated. Two of his "firsts" have happened recently, and she was in the mix for both. He crawled for the first time trying to catch her tail, and his first word was "kit".

Jonny, aka Mr. Smiley, refused to grin or giggle during this photo shoot, even with big brother tickling him.

Jonathan and his cousin Evan "wrassling" in Arlington Heights, IL. Evan is a superbaby! He's two months younger than Jon, but in May, when this picture was taken, he was already crawling.

Robert ran into the bathroom and yelled, "Mommy, get Hannah away." Of course, I was in the shower, so I didn't quite catch what he said. I couldn't imagine our cat Hannah doing anything in anyway to provoke Robert. She's spent the last few years huddled under couches and beds, and is finally comfortable enough with him to stay in the same room, curled up in her basket. So I go see what's the matter, and the cat is sprawled out on the floor looking very comfortable. "Robert, what's the matter? Hannah's not bugging you." "What's Hannah doing? Why isn't she in her basket?" he said. "What's she doing? She's all stretched out and comfortable." I realized the child must never have seen the cat actually relaxed before.

I was trying to convince Robert that he'd had enough computer time for the day. He said "I need more time and space."

We were at a McDonalds when Bobby, Robert, whatever his name is, decided to run off. I caught up to him just as he was asking a man for one of his french fries. The man might have looked less disgusted if a rat had skittered across the table.

Robert has invented some novel ways of saying "I hate you". He has threatened to sell me on the Internet, cook me, and knock off my head. (Not all at the same time.)

Bobby has decided he would prefer to be known by his real name--Robert. I asked him what he did with his nickname, and he told me that he sold it on the Internet.

When we were on the road to Chicago, we stopped at Bob Evans for lunch. Bobby really didn't want to go there, but he perked up when he was told he could have "Pizza Pizzazz". He got a fruit cup with that, and promptly ate all of the canteloupe (his favorite) out of it. He then stood up in the booth, peered around the dining room and yelled out, "Does anyone have anymore canteloupe?"

As most parents figure out, when you introduce your children to music, you better be prepared to listen to that same music over and over. Bobby has listened to Jazz Samba everyday for well over a year. I bought Motown No. 1s for us to listen in the car, and that worked well, until I realized that I was never going to hear any music past 1965. We always had to start on the first song, and by the time we were at our destination, we'd be, maybe, at "My Girl". The only good thing is that I won't have to explain to him what "Let's Get It On" means.

Bobby had a blemish on his chin, and after picking at it, needed a band-aid. He spent the rest of the afternoon and evening periodically saying "But my chin won't ever be better." I tried, all afternoon and evening, to convince him that it would be better, and better soon. When Jim came home, he muddied the waters by talking about how chick dig guys with scars. Then he told Bobby about the phrase "chin music" (from baseball). Of course, Bobby wanted to listen to a CD of this "Chin Music". If I were an evil mom, I would have told him about the little boy who had to have a chinechtomy, because his chin never got better.

My neighbor was nice enough to watch Jonny this morning on short notice. Since it was raining buckets, I decided to drive across the street and park as close to the house as possible. While I was backing out, I concentrated really hard on not hitting their car, so I ended up driving over their lawn. And no, I didn't get away unseen. She was having Jonny wave goodbye to us.

I only average one "hell" or "damn" a week, so I knew I was in trouble today when I said both of them within a fifteen minute period. And Bobby has only been out of preschool one day.

For some reason, Bobby was running around the house tonight yelling, "I have the speed! I have the seed! I have the need!"

Wednesday was the graduation and award day at preschool. There were lots of different awards: "Good friend", "Best manners", etc. The teacher was announcing the award for "Best Laugh" and was describing it as someone who "makes us all laugh, and we never know what he's going to do next." Bobby yelled out "Is it me?" And indeed it was.

Being kind of a neat freak, I always hang my clothes in the same order in my closet (if you must know, robes, t-shirts, nice t-shirts, fleece pants, denim pants, non-denim nice pants, hoodies) Somehow, one of my hoodies was hung up on my robe hanger. It was kind of creepy, but then I realized that no one would break into my house just to hang up my clothes in the wrong place. Also, at night, while I'm enjoying the first silence of the day, I've been hearing the wind chimes (I thought) play a haunting tune. It was starting to freak me out, because I knew the wind chimes couldn't be playing that tune over and over by themselves. What kind of fiend would play wind chimes outside of my house? It turns out that it's music from a book that Jim and Bobby have been reading. After posting this, I went to my bathroom to discover that someone had hung a wet washcloth on top of my dry towels. Will this evil ever end?

Jim said that it was hard to be spontaneous in the romance department with the kids around, and I said that it's not spontaneity that we're lacking, it's a ten minute interval when he isn't doing homework and I'm not comatose.

Even though it is the same substance, at a certain point, poop becomes shit. I'll be elbow deep in it when I'm changing a diaper, and it doesn't bother me, but a smear on my computer chair drives me insane. The good news is, I have a new, very comfortable computer chair. (In the interest of full disclosure, I'm sure I'd be scrubbing the shit out if our old computer chair hadn't been old and falling apart.)

For some reason, people keep asking me if I'm having a hard day.

I went to a half-day parenting workshop, and by the time I finished getting all of the kids' gear together, I had enough stuff to climb Mt. Everest (minus the oxygen and Sherpas)

It hasn't come to that, but Bobby did: disrupt the "Mat Rats" class by his usual tomfoolery, bean a girl on the head with a hard plastic toy, swipe a piece of chocolate from a little boy, and was about to swing another hard plastic toy around his head when I finally caught up with him. This all was after the morning, when, in the cold rain, he decided to lead me on a chase around the preschool parking lot. At dinner I announced I was running away to join the circus. Bobby replied, "Mommy, you don't have to run. You can just drive your car to the circus."

I can not believe that I actually said to my 3 1/2 year old child: "Do you know what persona non grata means?

Jim was using a spatula to get the last bit of chocolate pudding from the bowl. I said "You must be a chocoholic." Bobby said "Daddy, you're a chocolate bald head!"

After I found that Bobby had added close to fifty new folders in my Internet Favorites, I decided that I was going to have to supervise his computer time. That was a big disappointment, because I'd really hoped TV and the Internet would raise my children for me.

The preschool went on a field trip to a farm today. I knew I was in trouble when Bobby announced that he wanted to "set them [the horses] free."

1NO RUNNING 2PICZZA 3YOURESPET 4EATFRUIT 5DELL 6NONOISES 7TAKEMOMMY 8MAKEMELAUGH 9STANDWHERE 10PILLOWS 11DOCUMENT 12KISS 13BOBY 14CHAIRS 15BLOCAS 16STORIES 17MOWES 18 PICTURES

Being sleep-deprived on Sunday, I accidently put my elastic waist jeans on backwards, and since I am a mere accessory for a beautiful baby, no one noticed.

After a day of being strict with Bobby about his behavior (share your toys please, don't hit your playgroup friends) he comes to me and says "Mommy, I have your punisher out. " I say "Honey, I don't know what you mean." "It's your punisher, the one you use all the time." Now I'm really worried. He took me to the computer screen and pointed at Microsoft Publisher . "There's your punisher".

The robins are back, the daffodils are poking through the dirt, and somewhere,there is the sound of a child's carefree laughter as he chases a stroller across a parking lot! Fortunately, both the stroller and the parking lot were empty.

On Friday, I was eating my lunch, feeding the baby his lunch, and reading Hop on Pop to Bobby. I thought to myself, "I'm getting the hang of this parenting two kids thing", and immediately started to worry. The last time I thought I was getting the hang of something (cooking) I forgot to add water to my vegetable steamer and burned the pan.

I have had several people, because of my grey hair, mistake me for the boys' grandma. I guess it's better than them asking when the new baby is due.

Jim was talking to Bobby, and being thoroughly frustrated with him, said "You're a brat." Bobby said "I'm not a brat". Since his only exposure to that word are those awful, awful commercials for those awful, awful (did I mention awful) Bratz dolls, I told Jim I thought Bobby might be thinking he was being called a trashy teenage girl doll. Now, I know I shouldn't judge by their looks. They may be excellant students, they may be kind to the elderly, and they may be active in their churches, but they look like hookers. Why do these dolls exist, and why are they being marketed to children 4,000 times a day on Nickelodean? And don't even get me started on why anyone, anywhere would create a cartoon based on Gene Simmon's life.

I didn't realize that, along with every contagious disease that comes down the pike, that I would also catch the dreaded scourge of whining. I was at the doctor's office yesterday, loaded down with sweet little baby, when the receptionist handed me a three page document to fill out. "Do I have to do it now?" I whined.

Imagine my surprise this afternoon when I get a call from a man claiming to be Jonny's agent. Since Jonny is rarely out of my sight, I wondered how and when he might have contacted someone to handle his business affairs. The guy was blunt. "Jonny isn't happy with 8% of the blog. He wants at least 20%" "But he's preverbal. How much can I do with that?" "Yeah, he's preverbal now, but have you heard his babbling lately?" "I admit, his babbling is very cute". "Cute? He's takes his art seriously. You can practically tell what he's talking about!" "I can go as much as 12% max. The kid doesn't have it yet." "But the rosy glow, the winning smile, the kid's a natural born star. You gotta give him at least 18%" "Tell you what," I said, "when he says "Mama", he can have 15%" So we reached a deal. I got off the phone to find that Hannah, our 14 year old cat

Bobby has a virulent case of the "Butwhys" in addition to his chronic case of "Argumentitis". He is momentarily calm (Teletubbies), but I anticipate a long afternoon.

Bobby was afraid to go into the bathroom because of something on the floor. I asked, "Is it a big spider?" "Yes, a big spider, a medium sized spider and a small spider."

This is a message from the emergency mom broadcast system. As of 10:50 am Wednesday, March 9th, there is a Code Orange Juice alert on for my kitchen. At an unknown time earlier today, a large pitcher of orange juice was left in my fridge, without a lid. I repeat, the orange juice is without a lid. A search of the premises revealed no lid for the orange juice. This orange juice was left at the height of a preschooler in the front of the fridge, without shielding with other large objects such as a closed milk container. Last known whereabouts of lid were with a small boy, brown hair, approximately 4 years old. When asked about the lid, he said "Sure I know where it is", but further questioning revealed the subject was unable to produce said lid. At this time, emergency tin foil will be placed on the orange juice, and the jerry-rigged orange juice system placed out of the way of small hands. That is all. Oh, and the vertigo is better.

Follow the harrowing adventures of a mother, suffering from vertigo, as she tries to care for two small children. She can't drive, she can't walk a straight line--how will she be able to diaper, feed and entertain her tots? Very carefully.

My theory is that "Napjunkie" and "Mom" are synonyms. I know that I personally think the next nap I take it going to be "the one", the one that clears my head and gives me the energy I need to be supermom instead of subparmom, but it never happens.

Jim looked agast when I told him I'd started a blog. He insisted that I use an alias for each of us. So Jim is Mr. Man (or MM) . Bobby is Little Mister Man (LMM). Jon is Little Mister Baby Man (LMBM), and I, of course, would be Mrs. Sourpickle (Mrs. S). The real Mrs. Sourpickle was my imaginary friend who lived in the apartments on the way to the mall in my hometown. Jim was also very concerned that I would publish the ungarnished truth about our relationship. I told him I'd always use the parsley leaf of whimsy to cover up anything that might embarrass him.

It's become apparent that Bobby needs to have his own blog. After all, he did have his own email address a full year before he learned not to soil his pants. Or would that be ratcheting up the precocious child (and obnoxious mom) meter a bit much?

Bobby wants to play now. Right now! Now his knee is on my left arm as I type. When I posted the first message, he looked at it and said "That smells like your email!"

Bobby wants to help me with this blog. Since he's 3 1/2 years old, his help consists of poking me with a baby bottle brush and leaning on my left arm while I type. Oh, yeah, he also provides 90 % of my material. Baby Jon provides 8%, and husband Jim provides 1%. The other 1% is a scathing criticism of modern American values.